SCRAPS

There's a habit I have nurtured,

From the sentimental time

When my life was like a story,

And my heart a happy rhyme,—

Of clipping from the paper,

Or magazine, perhaps,

The idle songs of dreamers,

Which I treasure as my scraps.

They hide among my letters,

And they find a cozy nest

In the bosom of my wrapper,

And the pockets of my vest;

They clamber in my fingers

Till my dreams of wealth relapse

In fairer dreams than Fortune's

Though I find them only scraps.

Sometimes I find, in tatters

Like a beggar, form as fair

As ever gave to Heaven

The treasure of a prayer;

And words all dim and faded,

And obliterate in part,

Grow into fadeless meanings

That are printed on the heart.

Sometimes a childish jingle

Flings an echo, sweet and clear,

And thrills me as I listen

To the laughs I used to hear;

And I catch the gleam of faces,

And the glimmer of glad eyes

That peep at me expectant

O'er the walls of Paradise.

O syllables of measure!

Though you wheel yourselves in line,

And await the further order

Of this eager voice of mine;

You are powerless to follow

O'er the field my fancy maps,

So I lead you back to silence

Feeling you are only scraps.